


Amusos

by flawlessassholes



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Jewish John Silver, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 07:25:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15925670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawlessassholes/pseuds/flawlessassholes
Summary: “Don’t take another step into this house,” James said, coming to stand between Thomas and the man.“I need to see—” The man said, eyes wild, darting around the foyer, a shaking hand pointing towards Thomas. Belatedly, Thomas realized the hand wasn’t aimed in his direction, but instead, through him, towards his daughters, standing behind him. His heart clenched in panic.“Like hell—” James growled. “Whoever you are, leave my home, before I call the police—”“My name—” The man rasped, his voice hoarse, trembling, still backlight by incandescent lightning erupting behind him. “Is John Silver. And those are my daughters.”James McGraw and Thomas Hamilton live a beautiful life with their two adopted twin daughters, Callie and Clio. On the evening of the twin’s tenth birthday, a wild stranger comes to their front door, claiming that he is the father of the twins.





	1. Thomas

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH TO MY WONDERFUL BETA, MEL. She was a wonderful beta and collaborator, and I owe this fic to her! And thank you to Micah (www.sartsumas.tumblr.com) for the beautiful art!

“This is horrifying.” 

Thomas followed James’ horrified gaze to two ten-year-old boys as they began to beat the living hell out of each other with foam baseball bats. Nearby, a child did a poorly-executed backflip on a bouncy house and landed on a girl with bright blonde pigtails, who, in the backflipper’s defense, was just laying on the inflatable, waiting to be landed on. The party hadn’t even been going on for a half-hour, and yet, the kids were already deranged with joy and sugar. 

He handed James a steaming cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, black, extra-large and extra hot, just the way he liked it. In his hands, he holds a cup of milky, light-brown, and sugary-sweet cappuccino. “It’s not that bad. They’re having fun.”

“Fun?” James said, his brow wrinkling, even as he accepted the styrofoam cup. “I don’t see how this is fun. I’ve seen war zones with less carnage and chaos than this.” 

He chuckled, though he disagrees with James. Thomas can see the appeal, slightly. Maybe this would have been his childhood if he hadn’t been sent away at such a young age. Academics were Thomas’ life, not inflatables and pixie stix. There wasn’t much brightly colored refined sugar at Eton. 

“Furthermore, I don’t even know where our daughters _are_. Isn’t this supposed to be their party?” 

As if cued by the sound of their father’s voice, Callie and Clio came tearing through the party center/warehouse that they rented for the day, right between the bouncy house and the piñata. They looked utterly raptured with joy, with cake smeared across Callie’s face and a streamer stuck to the bottom of Clio’s pink trainers. 

“Clio!” Thomas called after his daughter. “Your shoe is untied!” 

One-half of their twin terrors didn’t seem to hear him, and instead launched herself full-speed into the bouncy house, and began to jump up and down at a rate that made Thomas’ stomach turn. He hoped she wouldn’t throw up after all that cake. 

He couldn’t believe it’s been _ten years,_ a whole decade since they took their daughters home. 

James and Thomas were told that the adoption process took months— maybe years— and that it would be long and grueling and often disappointing. They were told by agencies and counselors and caseworkers that they should prepare to have their hearts broken time and time again.

They weren’t expecting a phone call a fortnight into their search, that two twin girls were given up by a young couple unprepared for children. Less than a week later, they arrived at the hospital, signed papers, and took two infants home. A closed adoption. It was the best Halloween ever, as James liked to say.

Calliope and Clio, James, ever the lover of mythology, named them. Their Muses. 

Ten years and one transatlantic move later, here they were. In a converted warehouse outside Providence, Rhode Island, throwing a birthday bonanza for what seemed to be the entire fifth grade. 

“Here you go,” James held two Advil in his outstretched hand. Thomas looked at him and rolled his eyes. 

“Oh, please, James, you’re acting like this is your first birthday party,” Thomas said, though he did accept the Advil and popped it into his mouth, James doing the same. “This isn’t any worse than their sixth birthday. Remember? The ponies?” 

“Don’t remind me.” James replied, gruffly, “But you’ll thank me later. Especially when we get to presents.”

“Oh, God,” Thomas groaned. “ _Presents._ ” 

Two hours later, while James buckled the girls into the backseat of the SUV, Thomas waved off the parents carting exhausted ten-year-olds towards their cars, the sensible Volvos, and BMWs soaked from the on-and-off rain of the late October day. 

“Thank you so much for coming!” Thomas called out, as he balanced two unwrapped identical Barbie doll boxes in his hands, nodding at Leah Wu as she pulled out of the parking lot, her son Charlie sleeping soundly in the back seat. As he climbed into the passenger seat, he peered in the rearview mirror. Callie and Clio were nearly asleep themselves; behind them, the trunk was filled to the brim with presents and a leftover box of Wegman’s birthday cake. 

“At least the bouncy houses tired them out,” James said, shutting the door and igniting the engine. 

“We’ll have to put them down for a N-A-P before dinner,” Thomas replied, watching as James eased the car out of the parking lot, the headlights shining on the road, the sound of windshield wipers filling the blessed quiet of the car. It was a testament to how tired the girls were that they didn't protest the dreaded N-word, or told Thomas that they _knew_ how to spell _nap_. 

“Am I still making mac and cheese?” 

“Of course,” Thomas said. “You know Callie will throw a fit if you don’t. You promised her.” 

James sighed. “Why can’t we just feed them leftover pizza? We ordered enough to feed an army.” 

“Take it to work tomorrow,” Thomas suggested. “Feed it to your men. An actual army.” 

“Oh, har har,” James replied, driving over Providence River and into their neighborhood of College Hill, the streets trees lined fallen leaves and the larger homes, populated by the professors of Brown and the wealthier families of Providence. “They’ll stage a mutiny if I feed them day-old pizza from an elementary school birthday party.” 

“Maybe we’ll just feed it to Salt and Pepper.” Their cats-- one white and grumpy, and one black and white and grumpy-- were both extraordinarily fat creatures that loved to steal human food off the table, the counters, the trash… everywhere.

James frowned. “Okay, but you’re taking them to the vet when they won’t stop vomiting.” James was a bit like the cats.

They pulled into the driveway of their home, stark and white, contrasting amongst the bleak, but beautiful, fall landscape. Providence may have been rainy and cold, but at least it was colorful, unlike the gray of London. 

“Alright, you get them into bed, I’ll unload the car,” Thomas said, unbuckling the girls, who were tiredly rubbing their eyes, as James rolled his. 

“You only like me for my muscles.” He grumbled, which was true because nothing made heat flare in Thomas’ belly like watching James shoulder the twins and carry both of them with ease. James took them through the front door, past Callie and Clio’s pumpkins, where they sat on the brick stoop, their lopsided carvings waiting to be filled with the lights of Halloween, this Thursday. Callie was going as an astronaut; Clio, a pirate. 

He remembered a time when they were younger, when James would come back from deployment and would lift Thomas against any surface and utterly ravish him, carrying him through the halls of their London apartment, clothes shredded without care. 

He opened the trunk of the van just as the rain began to fall, and Thomas sighed. Maybe he’d leave unloading the presents until tomorrow. After all, they lived in an incredibly safe (and incredibly white, as James liked to remind him) neighborhood. They don’t even lock the front door, most of the time. Only at night, after the girls were tucked into bed. 

He decided to just bring in the leftover cake and pizza and leave the rest for later. He didn’t need to slip and fall on the uneven brick of their driveway and break a hip. 

Inside, the house was warm, contrary to the chill outside. Thomas decided to light a fire, before walking upstairs to where James was arguing with the girls, insisting that they needed to nap. 

“If you want more cake later,” he explained, patiently, because James was always patient with the girls, “you have to take a nap. When you wake up, it’ll be time for dinner, and you can play with your gifts.” 

“But _Daddy_ ” Clio whined. “I’m not tired!” Her protests were betrayed by a large yawn. Thomas chuckled from the doorway. 

Unfortunately, Callie spotted him. “Papa!” She said. “Tell Daddy we don’t need to take a nap.” 

“My darling, I am so sorry,” he replied, approaching her bed and sitting on the purple comforter. “But you need to nap. But just think— there will be mac and cheese when you wake up.” 

“Alright,” Callie conceded. Thomas pressed his lips together, smiling, as he brushed her brown, curly hair away. Her warm, hot-chocolate-colored eyes gazed up at him. He leaned over and pressed a kiss to her skin, so much different than his or James, pale as can be. No, Callie and Clio's coloration was a light brown, like the color Thomas prefers to take his coffee. They knew that the girl’s biological parents were an interracial couple. They don’t know much else about them. Only that they were young, madly in love, and gave Thomas and James the best gift of their lives. 

Once the girls were napping, James headed for the kitchen, and Thomas settled into the living room to edit his research proposal for the nth time. He was finally up for tenure review at Brown, six years after moving to the States. Thomas had just begun teaching at LSE when he met James. He sat down to grade papers on a train ride from London to Portsmouth, across from a handsome ginger in full dress. Thomas was heading to the Royal Naval Academy to attend a discussion between an admiral and a colleague of his. James was returning from leave after a long deployment.

They’ve been together ever since. 

Three years after they adopted Clio and Callie, James was chosen to participate in the officer exchange program between the United States Navy and the Royal Navy. He was offered a training position at the Naval Academy in Newport, Rhode Island. Meanwhile, Thomas, a political philosophy professor, had just done a guest lecture at Brown University, promoting his book, and was offered a position when the department head took a liking to him and his research. 

Neither of them had much family left in England, besides Thomas’ oldest friend and the girl’s godmother. Providence was a great city, smaller than London, of course, but still large enough. It was a short commute away from Newport, and they were near the ocean. The girls could grow up in a friendly neighborhood in a big home with a large yard and good schools. Furthermore, Rhode Island had just legalized gay marriage. It made the decision to move all the easier. 

Still, leaving tenure behind at LSE and waiting to regain it at Brown was frustrating. He wanted to recover the security he had in London, but for now, he was at the mercy of the review board. That meant perfecting proposals and applying to every grant possible for his new research on Locke and Liberalism. 

The sound of a bottle hitting the wood side-table next to him pulled Thomas out of his notes. 

“That’s that new pale ale from the brewery we visited for Labor Day,” James said, collapsing onto the couch next to Thomas. He held the same bottle in his hand and a well-loved copy of Edith Hamilton's Greek Mythology in the other. “How’s the proposal?” 

“Rough. Nothing I’m doing is new or ground-breaking.” Thomas gritted his teeth, focusing on the blinking cursor of the screen. There was only so much one could say about English political philosophy during the Enlightenment. Thomas had already written one book, wasn’t that enough?

James tutted. “You’ll find a new angle.” He said. “You always do.” With that, he opened the well-loved book to the middle, and began reading, his hand coming to stroke his beard in the way it always did when James read or concentrated.

They sat, side-by-side, contented by the beer, the fire, and the sound of Thomas’ long fingers on the keys of his laptop. Every once in a while, James would get up to check on dinner, the mac and cheese baking in the oven and the state of the green beans boiling on the stove. And every time he got up, he would scare one of the cats, from where they lay at Thomas’ feet, sleeping by the warmth of the fire, or, in Pepper’s case, directly on his power cord. 

Eventually, the sound of footsteps came from the staircase, the telltale signal that the girls woke up from their naps. Rather than ask to play with their toys, they looked at the fireplace, and settled into the couch with their own books; _Little House on the Prairie_ for Clio and _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_ for Callie. 

The girls, like Thomas and James, were avid readers. When Thomas was young, he’d always curl up beside the fireplace with his mother, a copy of _Sherlock Holmes_ in his hands. He knew James grew up much the same. They tried to instill a love of reading in their daughters from a young age, and Thomas was pleased to say they succeeded. The bookshelf in their bedroom (a gift from James’ father, lovingly crafted before he passed) overflowed with children’s classics, though, Thomas’ heart shudders at the thought that soon, they will be reading young adult novels, and not Laura Ingalls Wilder or J.K. Rowling. 

They have a rule, in their house. No screens in the kitchen, the living room, or in the bedrooms. Thomas remembers his childhood, filled with television screens and endless news cycles around the house, the sound of the BBC everywhere he turned. His father was a politician and needed to have the news on continually. It didn’t matter that it created a cold environment to grow up in, or that Thomas’ memories were tinged blue-white, like the screen of a television, blasting on about the economy and politics and whatnot. 

No, Thomas preferred his new memories, of quiet, warmly lit evenings in the living room with his daughters. 

“Papa!” Callie’s head popped up over the hard, blue-green cover of the book. “Hermione got petrified!” 

Thomas was about to respond with the appropriate shock-and-horror when James called them to dinner. 

“Alright, go wash, Birthday Girls,” Thomas said, shutting his laptop to shoo the girls off towards the hall bathroom. He grabbed his beer and headed into the kitchen, where James was portioning out four plates of his world-famous, home-made macaroni and cheese. He wrapped his arms around James, nuzzling into his husband’s neck. Outside, there was a loud _CRACK!_ of thunder, and the rain came down even harder. 

“I love you,” James said, squeezing Thomas’ hand. James then told Thomas to stop acting like a love-sick idiot and help him carry the plates to the table. 

Thomas had just put his beer next to his plate when he heard the ding of the alarm system alerting the rest of the house that a door has been opened. 

James looked at him, confused. “What on earth—?” 

“Maybe they’re letting the cats out?” Thomas reasoned, though that seemed highly unlikely. The girls knew the cats were afraid of storms. 

“Girls?” James called out, and Thomas followed him, the two men heading towards the foyer. “What are you—” 

James and Thomas stopped dead in their tracks. In the doorway, there was a man, bearded, soaking wet, and panting. Behind him, lightning flashed, the storm raging around him, making the man look less like a man and more like a wild apparition. 

“I’m getting my gun,” James murmured. Thomas didn't know what to do. He could hear the girl’s footsteps behind him, the sound of his husband's voice as James told them to stay back, but he couldn't take his eyes off the beast of a man in the doorway. He must’ve been homeless, looking for shelter from the storm. Thomas was about to speak, to say something, anything when the man took a hesitant step forward. Beneath his left arm, there was a crutch, and Thomas’ gaze fell downward, to the empty space where a left leg should be, and where the man’s soaked pant leg was tied up. 

“Don’t take another step into this house,” James said, coming to stand between Thomas and the man. 

“I need to see—” The man said, eyes wild, darting around the foyer, a shaking hand pointing towards Thomas. Belatedly, Thomas realized the hand wasn’t aimed in his direction, but instead, through him, towards his daughters, standing behind him. His heart clenched in panic. 

“Like hell—” James growled. “Whoever you are, leave my home, before I call the police—” 

“My name—” The man rasped, his voice hoarse, trembling, still backlight by incandescent lightning erupting behind him. “Is John Silver. And those are my daughters.” 

The man then collapsed onto the carpet. James turned to Thomas, and together, they turned to look at their daughters. 

Their eyes were full of fear, and they stared, unwaveringly, at the now-unconscious man on the floor. 

It took a moment, but James and Thomas finally took action. James grabbed the girls, gathering them into his arms, and carried them upstairs. 

Thomas, on the other hand, stepped around the man to close the door. He crouched down, to get a better look at the man. His face was gaunt, his beard untamed and wild, but looked, to Thomas, incredibly young. He couldn’t have been even thirty years old. 

His heart thumped. They had a closed adoption. They didn't know who the girls’ birth parents were. Nor do the girls’ birth parents know who James and Thomas are. Or _where_ they are. 

“Call the police.” 

Thomas’ head whipped around. James reappeared from upstairs. “I’m not going to do that, James.” 

“The hell you aren’t, Thomas, we can’t just let—” 

“What if he’s their father, James—” 

“ _We_ are their fathers.” James interrupted, his fists clenched tightly in anger.

“He looks exhausted,” Thomas said, trying to reason, which never really worked with James, but was worth a shot. He stood, walking over to his husband and placed his hands on the man's broad shoulders. “Let’s at least get him by the fire, put a blanket around him, try and get an explanation out of him. We don’t want this happening again.” 

James looked like he wanted to say no, but Thomas schooled his face into that unrelenting glare that he has perfected, the one that he gives to students who beg for extensions the day the paper is due. 

“Fine,” James said. “But I’m getting my gun.” 

“Bring the girls their dinner while you do, then,” Thomas replied, before he hauled the man up, and dragged him to the den. Heavens, the man looked skinny, but he was insultingly heavy. Either that or Thomas was weaker than he previously thought. 

He just managed to get the man— Silver, he said, hadn’t he?— upright on the couch with a blanket around his shoulders when James returned from bringing the girls their dinner. Sure enough, the gun from James’ uniform-- the one he keeps locked in a safe when he isn’t at work-- was holstered on his hip. 

“Has he woken up yet?” James asked. Thomas was about to reply when the man stirred, his eyes opening. They were, perhaps, the bluest eyes Thomas has ever seen. Ocean-blue, the eyes blearily look from Thomas to James, to the gun. 

He sat up straighter, suddenly looking more awake. 

“Who the hell are you,” James asked, hand on the gun. “And what are you doing in my home?” 

“I’m sorry, I’m— I apologize. That entrance was a bit more… dramatic than I intended.” 

“That doesn’t answer my question.” 

“I told you. I’m John Silver. Those girls— those girls are my daughters.” The man said, his eyes still wide and panicky. His voice was hoarse, and his face looked even more pale, his cheeks even more hollow, in the flickering light of the fire.

“Do you have any proof?” Thomas interrupted before James could threaten the man any further. 

“The adoption was closed, so, no. I don’t have any physical documents.” The man bit his lip, already chapped and pale, the indentations where Silver worried his lips between his teeth bruised and blue, giving an even sicker appearance to the man’s already poorly appearance. Silver looked frustrated. “But they were born at the Royal Free Hospital in London, 26th October 2008. Today is their tenth birthday. They were adopted by James McGraw and Thomas Hamilton, and in December 2010, Thomas Hamilton resigned from his position at the London School of Economics to teach at Brown University.” 

“The adoption was closed. You said so yourself.” James said. His hand still hadn’t left the gun. “How did you learn that information?” 

“I searched for it.” He said. “The internet, you know? We only had the girls for a week so Madi could breastfeed and all that. She didn’t want—” Silver paused and shook his head. “She was worried sick about them. But the caseworker was really kind to us. She knew it was a hard decision for us and she knew Madi was really upset. She told us the girls were in good hands, that they were adopted by a professor at the London School of Economics and a Royal Naval Officer. She said they’d have a real posh life.” Silver paused, a bitter frown on his face. 

“I found a take-your-daughter-to-work day post on your department’s Facebook page,” Silver nodded towards Thomas. “Of you and a man in uniform holding two brown baby girls. Then when you—” He nodded at James— “were made Warrant Officer, there was an announcement in the Cornish & Devon Post, about a local Padstow youth and Wadebridge alumnus achieving such a high rank in the Royal Navy. Said you lived in London with your partner, Thomas Hamilton and had two adopted daughters. I put two and two together.” 

Thomas looked at James. James looked at Thomas. 

Silver cleared his throat. “Is that, uh, enough proof? To put the gun away?” 

“No,” James said. 

“Why?” Thomas asked. 

Both James and Silver looked surprised by Thomas’ question. “Why… do I want the gun put away?” Silver asked, slowly. “Well, I think it’s quite obvious—” 

“No,” Thomas interrupted, sharper than he expected, but it felt like his nerves were on fire. “Why now? Why did you— why did you find us now? Why not when we were in London?” 

“Ah,” Silver said, gently. “That’s quite a personal question, I’d rather not—” 

James’ hand went back to the gun. “You _will_ answer the question,” James growled. “And you will continue to answer _all_ of our questions; otherwise, the police will be called.” 

“Alright, alright,” Silver said, putting his hands up. “Fine. My wife, Madi. The girl’s mother. We— there was an accident. She— she passed away ‘round Christmastime last year.”

“Still, that was nearly a year ago. Why now?”

Silver looked at Thomas, his otherwise innocent expression turning dark. “I will not answer questions on how I mourned my wife. Or how long it took me to get out of rehabilitation.” 

Thomas’ eyes went back to the leg, or lack thereof. 

“Furthermore, do you know how bloody expensive a transatlantic ticket is? Especially when you’ve been _let go_ from your job? ‘Cause you can’t stand on your own long enough to brew a coffee?” 

“What do you want now?” James asked, still looking impatient. “You’ve seen them. They’re in good health, I assure you. You can leave. When’s your flight back?” 

“I don’t have one.” Silver said. “I’d— I’d like to get to know them. For— for myself. For my wife.” 

“You gave up that right—” 

“James,” Thomas said, finally, his heart beating quickly. “That was a decade ago. He was young. He has the right to know the girls.” 

James shook his head. “I’m not letting a stranger into our home, to meet them—” 

“Why don’t you ask them?” 

James and Thomas turn to Silver. “Pardon?” James asked. 

“They’re ten now, aren’t they? Ask them if they want to meet me. If they say no, fine. I leave. I’ll book the next flight back to London. If they say yes, well—” 

“No, absolutely not,” James said. “Thomas, I’m not letting him even _look_ at the girls, let alone ask them—” 

“I apologize, Mr. Silver.” Thomas interrupted, placing a hand to halt James’ looming tirade. “James is very protective of the girls. We will ask them in the morning if they’d like to meet you. That’s a perfectly reasonable request.” 

“Thomas—“ James blustered, his face reddening in a way that was delightful but also meant Thomas was in a great deal of trouble. 

“Thank you.” 

The two men looked back to the wild man, sitting on the couch, still nowhere close to dry. There were tears in Silver’s eyes, and he looked so utterly _relieved_ that it broke Thomas’ heart. 

“You must be exhausted,” Thomas said. 

Silver nodded. “I walked here.” 

“From where?” Thomas asked, confused. 

“…The airport?” Silver replied as if it were a stupid question to ask. 

“That’s a two-hour walk, at least. You did that in the rain?” James asked. He looked concerned-- albiet begrudgingly. 

“I spent the last of my money that plane ticket.” Silver said. “I couldn’t hail a cab. I literally have no way to pay.” 

Thomas opened his mouth, and James began to shake his head, even before Thomas spoke. “No, _no, _Thomas, don’t even _ask—_ ” __

__“Where are you staying tonight?” Thomas asked, because he will always ask._ _

__Silver looked taken aback as if he hadn’t considered that fundamentality of his plan. “I… confess, I hadn’t thought that far.” A hand drifted upwards to pull the blanket around his shoulders tighter. “I… I’m sure there’s somewhere—”_ _

__“Nonsense,” Thomas said, punctuated by the sound of James’ frustrated sigh behind him. “You’ll stay here. We’ll ask the girls in the morning, and you can stay in the guest suite, get cleaned up.”_ _

__James rubbed his hands over his face, exhaling loudly out of his nose, his nostrils flaring. “I warn you,” He said, finally, his voice dark and low. “If you go anywhere near the girls before they have expressly consented to see you, I will kill you, very painfully, and make it look like you slipped and fell and hit your head coming up the front walk.”_ _

__Thomas rolled his eyes, though he knew James wasn’t kidding. The man hadn’t spent all those years deployed playing cards. “Come now, I’ll show you to the guest room.”_ _

__The man stood, shakily, before he groaned and sat— or, rather, collapsed— back on the couch. “My apologies, give me a moment—”_ _

__Thomas chewed the inside of his cheek, a dreadful habit that he picked up as a child whenever his father made him anxious. “Mr. Silver, when was the last time you ate?”_ _

__“Well,” Silver said, clearly thinking about it. “The plane— I couldn’t have the dinner on the plane. So, I suppose… a few days ago? It’s been hard. Like I said, money—”_ _

__“Come then, we made macaroni and cheese for dinner. It's still warm.” Thomas held his hand out and helped the wild man up, and into the kitchen._ _

__Later, once Silver was asleep in the guest room, and James had double- and triple- checked the locks on the house, and Thomas assuaged the girl’s fears and read them their bedtime stories, they lay, side-by-side, in the pale moonlight that filtered in through the bay window in the master bedroom._ _

__The air was heavy between them, and Thomas doesn’t know how to break the tension. Instead, he strokes the prickly red hair at the nape of James’ neck and waits for his husband to speak his mind._ _

__“I don’t like this,” James said, finally, and shifted, rolling over so that he faced Thomas. James was always the little spoon, a fact that endeared Thomas endlessly._ _

__“I’m well aware, because your gun is on the bedside table and not in its safe, which I utterly despise, and you know that,” Thomas replied, frowning._ _

__“I just don’t trust a man who _stalked_ us—”_ _

__“I believe stalking entails observance without reason. Silver has a valid reason for coming here.” Thomas responded, reasonably enough, even though he hated being reasonable about this situation. He wanted to be angrier, to be more protective, like James. He felt like anyone looking in from the outside would think that Thomas loved the girls less, or cared less about their safety if he was willing to let a complete stranger sleep in their home after arriving in such a terrifying and abrupt manner._ _

__But Thomas couldn’t help but understand John Silver. God forbid if Thomas had to give up his daughters at the age of nineteen, or however ridiculously young Silver was when he gave the girls away, Thomas wasn’t sure he would be able to stay away, no matter how ‘closed’ the adoption was. Especially not after losing his wife. Or, James, rather._ _

__Thomas couldn’t help but feel pity and a pang in his chest when he thought of Silver, with his swallow skin and hollow cheeks, legless, walking from the airport to their house in the storm. A man in mourning. Thomas had imagined— perhaps too many times— James’ death. He was most confronted by the possibility of losing his husband whenever James was deployed. He remembered a few months, in December 2004, preparing for Christmas with Miranda in an empty home, praying to a god that he hadn’t prayed to in a long time. Thomas only knew that James’ squadron came under heavy fire in Fallujah, and they weren’t able to give an accurate account of who was alive, who was missing, and who was dead. He and James had only known each other for a few years; Thomas had yet to come out to his father, he was still married to Miranda, and he thought he lost James forever without ever getting to truly love him and be with him._ _

__The minute he got word James was alive, he told his father he was gay, and he and Miranda filed for divorce. He couldn’t imagine being alone in this world, not now, not with the love of his life beside him, his girls down the hall, his best friend thriving in England, away from his father’s criticisms and hatred. He was no longer alone; he would never be alone. John Silver was._ _

__Any man with that determination to see the children he gave away— well, Thomas admired him, just a little. He would walk to the ends of the earth for Callie and Clio. It made sense that John Silver would do the same._ _

__“What if the girls say yes?” James said, quietly, his voice soft in a way that made Thomas’ heart hurt. “What if—”_ _

__“James McGraw, you stop this instant. There is no way in hell those girls will ever love that man more than us. Or any way they would ever leave us.” Thomas, instantly, knew the fears, the worries and anxiety plaguing James’ mind and their respective sleep. He would be lying if he said he didn’t have the same fears himself. “ _We_ are their fathers. _You_ are the one who takes them sailing, taught them how to ride their bicycles, took Clio to the hospital when she had appendicitis. That young man— and he is _young_ , James— will never replace us. It is simply impossible.” _ _

__Regardless of the man’s intentions, or their daughter’s feelings, Thomas was confident in his daughters’ loyalty. Furthermore, there was no logistical action to be taken— James and Thomas were Callie and Clio’s fathers. Legally. Emotionally. Forever. It would be impossible for any person, not even John Silver, to replace them._ _

__James sighed, and rolled back over, muttering quietly. “Fine. I still don’t like it. But I love you, so I’ll indulge your bloody bleeding heart.”_ _

__Thomas smiled and pressed a kiss in James’ hair, before finally, blissfully, drifting off to sleep._ _


	2. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It was the worst thing I’ve ever done.” John said, finally, a confession tumbling out of him all at once. “I hated myself for it, every day. Since we signed the papers, since Madi died. I hated myself for giving them away, but even more, I hated myself for getting Madi pregnant in the first place.”_

_The tires squealed, and there was the sound of metal twisting and contorting, and suddenly there was fire and smoke and airbags smothering him. He couldn’t breath, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t move._

Choking, choking, choking. 

_He frantically reached for her hand, to make sure she was okay, she had to be okay, and was met with the burning, charred metal of a highway streetlight, covered in blood and broken glass._

Choking, choking, choking. 

_He couldn’t see. He couldn’t breath. He only heard screaming, screaming for was either minutes or hours until blue and red flashing lights illuminated the smoke, and he finally closed his eyes, the smoke smothered him like a thick quilt from the foster homes of his youth, scratchy and overbearing, quieting his wracking sobs on the empty highway._

Choking, choking, choking. 

_It was his screaming. His screaming that started when twisted, burning metal lodged into his femur. Screaming that continued into the ambulance. Screaming when he learned that she was dead. Screaming when he learned it was his fault, that it was all his fucking fault._

John awoke with a start. 

He took a shallow, shaky breath, and pushed his damp hair out of his face, and rested the back of his hand on his forehead, still clammy from the cold sweat of his nightmare. 

Bright sunlight streamed in through white curtains. The guest bedroom of the McGraw-Hamilton home was _obscenely_ clean and entirely white. The bedsheets and duvet were white, the towels in the adjacent bathroom were white, the carpet was white, and the walls were white. If John hadn’t come to his senses so quickly when he woke up, he would have thought he was heaven. 

What a joke. John wasn’t going to _heaven_. 

He reached for his crutch, shook his head, and hauled himself out of bed. He limped over to the bathroom, took a piss, and began to run a bath. Max had outfitted her apartment with a shower chair and railing, when he was living with her because he couldn’t hold a job and his rent checks kept bouncing, and he was evicted. 

There was no shower railing in the guest bathroom of the McGraw-Hamilton home, despite it being _massive_ and _ludicrously_ luxurious. He just sat down in the shower, staring blankly at his leg, the scars, still pink and raised, criss-crossing over the pale skin below his knee. 

It was still early, and the rich and ridiculous house was still and quiet. John combed through the tangles in his long hair with the provided shampoo and conditioner. Once the grime of a two hour walk and a twelve hour flight was washed away, he lifted himself out of the water, droplets slushing off his body. He shook out his hair like a dog, before wrapping a plush towel around his waist. God, the towel was so soft. Between the thread count of the sheets, the softness of the towel, and the ply of the toilet paper, John was shocked that the faucet of the bathtub didn’t spit out gold coins or some utter bullshit like that. He was shocked that Thomas Hamilton and James McGraw weren’t actively shitting money at any given point in time. 

John looked at himself in the mirror. He still hadn’t cut his hair since the accident, and even then, it had been long. His beard had grown long and tangled. He picked up a comb to start cleaning the mass of unruly black curls. He looked so much older than he looked when the accident happened. 

He looked so much older than he had when the girls were born. 

That’s how he always thought of them— the girls. Not his daughters, because they weren’t. They weren’t his daughters, even when they were born, long before they were James McGraw and Thomas Hamilton’s daughters. 

They were always Madi’s daughters. 

From the moment Madi looked at him, pregnancy test in her hand and tears in her eyes, John fought with her. He begged her to get an abortion. When she refused, he continued to press the idea of adoption on her up until the day the girls were born. He never wanted children. From the minute the doctor at the clinic told them Madi was carrying twins, he was scared shitless. 

They were only nineteen. 

It was the first day of class at King’s London, and the most beautiful woman in the world walked past him in the lecture hall and sat down two rows and three seats to the left from John. John couldn’t even remember now what class it was, whether it was Art History or English— so much for his supposed legendary memory, the one that helped him cheat his way into university in the first place. All John could remember was the beautiful girl sitting two rows down and three seats to the left. 

John knew she was so out of his league, but that didn’t stop him from approaching her after the lecture ended. He asked her to coffee. Miraculously, she agreed. 

Two months later, she was pregnant. 

John entered school hoping to become a novelist. Three months into his first year, he dropped out. Madi wouldn’t get an abortion, so John reasoned that if he was able to find a job that paid well enough, and he was able to save enough money, they could keep the twins. 

He didn’t. He couldn’t. 

In secret, he found an adoption agency. He filled out the paperwork. When the girls were born, he presented them to Madi, still in the hospital. In the midst of the afterbirth, Madi relented and signed the papers. He orchestrated it all. He watched as Madi sobbed when the girls were finally taken away by the agency. 

She never forgave him. John believed she died hating him. He deserved her hatred. He orchestrated his betrayal. She was right to leave him for those two years, those two long years alone, drinking himself to the verge of death and back. He couldn’t believe it when she came back. 

Now she was gone. Again. And this time, she would never come back. It was a miracle she even came back the first time.

His beard marginally neater and his hair untangled, John returned to the lily-white bedroom and pulled some clean— albeit wrinkled— clothes out of the one battered suitcase he brought with him from London. 

Finally dressed for the day, John opened the door, and crept into the hallway. The guest suite of the Hamilton-McGraw house was located on the first floor, just off a tiled laundry room. The house seemed quiet and still, as if no one was awake yet. After wandering around the halls as silently as he could, he finally found the kitchen, dark save for the early morning light streaming through a large window above the sink. 

His eyes looked to the blue-checked curtains, the shining stainless-steel appliances, the refrigerator covered in report cards and magnets and drawings and schedules. There was a kitchen table in the corner, round and wooden. The room was neat and tidy, but clearly well-used and well-loved. 

In John’s exploration, his eyes landed on an electric tea kettle. He took one halting step towards it when he heard a deep voice say, “Stop.” 

John turned around, and saw the shadow of James McGraw in doorway. “I was just going to—” 

“Do you know what I was doing at three o’clock this morning?” McGraw said, stepping into the kitchen and switching on bright overhead lights. He was dressed in Navy fatigues. The gun from the night before was holstered on his waist. 

“I haven’t the faintest,” John said, his eyes following the man as he continued to switch on lights.

McGraw took down two coffee mugs, pulled out a container of some brand of coffee he didn’t recognize, and filled the percolator; the machine coaxed into action with a groan. He turned back to John. His eyes were narrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I was comforting two ten-year-old girls who awoke with nightmares that a strange, one-legged monster was going to steal them away in the night.” 

John stared at the two mugs on the counter. McGraw didn’t have to say it, but he knew the second mug wasn’t for him. “I didn’t mean—” 

“You had no right to show up like that. You have no _rights_ , period, to see the girls. But you couldn’t have called? Emailed? Sent a passenger pigeon?” McGraw folded his arms. “You’re lucky that Thomas is so empathetic.”

John didn’t deign McGraw with a response. It was clear that the man didn’t like him, nor would he _ever_ like him. It was understandable. John wasn’t here to have a relationship with James McGraw. He was here to have a relationship with Madi’s daughters. Or, at least to try. “What did the girls say?” 

The mustache of McGraw’s beard twitched, the hard line of his lips pressed tightly together turning downward into a frown. “Thomas is going to ask them when he wakes them for school.” 

John’s heart turned over, and he nodded. “Alright.” 

“If they say no, you’ll leave at once, understood?” 

John nodded again, feeling no more confident than before. This was always a crapshoot— it was a crapshoot when the idea was proposed to him, one that was dangerous to take on, but he was desperate enough to try. John knew throughout his research, when he booked his ticket, when he boarded the plane, that this all could fail. Nothing was guaranteed in this life; John learned that from an early age. Stability wasn’t guaranteed. Love wasn’t guaranteed. Family wasn’t guaranteed. If Madi’s daughters didn’t want to see him, they wouldn’t see him. There would be other ways to find success in this mission he was on. 

Belatedly, it occurred to John that he should thank McGraw for his hospitality. Or, rather, his husband’s hospitality. When he looked at the man, frowning at the illuminated screen of his phone, stroking the end of his well-maintained beard, John hesitated. He was clearly already on thin ice. He didn’t want to engage with James McGraw more than necessary. 

The aroma of fresh coffee filled the kitchen and the percolator buzzed. McGraw put his phone away with a _click_ of the lock screen, before busying himself with the mugs on the island. The sun was beginning to rise through the windows. McGraw, finished doctoring the coffee, began to pull out packages of frozen waffles from freezer. It was clear the man had a routine, and it was clear that he was not going to let John’s presence interrupt that routine. 

He once had a routine with Madi. 

She left him, for a while. Nearly two years. It was understandable. After the adoption, he understood her distrust, her feelings of betrayal. He welcomed it. It often felt like a sort of penance for what he had done. She left, one morning, a few weeks after the adoption. And almost as quickly as she went, she came back. She found John on a park bench, alone, and sat with him. 

The last seven years saw marriage, four more attempts at having more children, John’s numerous failed book attempts, Madi’s success in school. There were countless mornings like this, where John would rise before dawn to write and brew two cups of tea before Madi came in, dressed as always in simple but stunning business attire, ready to begin her work as a Curatorial Fellow for Sub-Saharan African artifacts at the British Museum. They were going to go on vacation, together, when Madi was granted Sabbatical. John was eager to see Madi’s home, her island, and meet that overbearing mother of hers that complained at least once a week about her lack of grandchildren. 

Then, the accident. John’s fault, naturally. 

Suddenly, gone were the days of early mornings and tea-laced kisses out the door. Gone were the late nights of Thai take-away, watching Strictly and laughing over John’s ridiculous customers at the Costa Coffee. 

It was all gone thanks to a night of icy roads and sharp corners and lampposts. With it went John’s leg and his will to live— until he was forced to remember the girls. 

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps entering the room.

“Ah, yes, thank you, darling,” Thomas Hamilton said as he accepted a steaming mug of near-white coffee from McGraw. “Good morning, Mr. Silver. Did you sleep well?” 

John was momentarily shocked by someone addressing him in a tone that wasn’t threatening. “Uh, yes? Thank you. Your home is— is lovely.” 

Hamilton nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer, before turning to McGraw. “Remember, Clio has to be picked up from soccer at five.” 

McGraw hummed. “Does this mean you’re getting Callie from dance?” 

“Yes, because I’m meeting with the grad students at the Starbucks next to her studio.” 

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot—”

“I’m sorry—” John hated to interrupt the morning domesticity, but he had to know what the girls said about meeting him. “I have to ask—”

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry,” Hamilton said, as if he remembered John was standing there. “The girls have agreed to meet with you, Mr. Silver. Why don’t you have a seat at the table? I’m sure James can whip you up a cup of coffee. Or would you prefer tea?” 

Relief flooded through John’s body, leaving him nearly breathless. “Thank you,” He said, hoarsely, surprised by the thickness in his throat and the sudden wetness in the corner of his eyes. “Uh, er, tea is fine, if it’s no trouble,” 

“It most certainly isn’t,” Hamilton said, and gave what looked to be a pointed glare in James’ direction. McGraw rolled his eyes and began filling an electric kettle with fresh water. 

“Where are they?” McGraw asked, looking up at the digital clock on the microwave. “They’ll miss the bus at this rate.” 

As if cued by the sound of their father’s voice, the sound of footsteps on carpet then hardwood filled the front hall. Two young girls, dressed in uniform jumpers and khaki skirts rounded the corner and stopped in the entrance to the kitchen. They looked to John, then to Hamilton and McGraw. 

“Who’s a hungry hungry hippo?” McGraw said suddenly, cheerfully, in a tone that John hadn’t heard from the man before, as if nothing was different about this morning, as if John wasn’t intruding so obviously. 

“Is it waffles?” One of the girls asked, as she cautiously took a step forward into the kitchen. John hated that he couldn’t tell them apart, but the girls looked totally identical to him. 

“Of course,” McGraw huffed. “It’s Monday. What else would there be for breakfast?” 

John realized that the girls were not only identical to each other, but to Madi. They shared the same eyes, nose, lips, chin— everything. Their hair was a bit looser, their skin a bit lighter. Except for that, they looked like carbon copies of their mother. 

It broke John’s heart. 

Three plates were placed on the wooden table that John sat at. He looked at McGraw, his eyes still harsh as they met John’s and served the plates waffles with blueberries on top. “Come sit girls. We’ve got a lot to talk about.” 

The girls sat. Again, their eyes went from their fathers to John. Hamilton came to sit next to them as McGraw began to clean the kitchen.

“Girls, this is John Silver. He’s your birth father. The man that gave you to us.” Hamilton said, smiling encouragingly at John. 

John swallowed, before haltingly raising his hand in greeting. “Hullo?” 

“Hi,” One of the girls, the one with pigtails, not braids, replied through a mouthful of waffles. “Daddy says you came all the way from London to meet us.” 

“I did,” John said. “And maybe get to know you girls, if that’s alright with you.” 

The twins looked at each other, seemingly conversing without saying anything at all. Then, the girl with braids spoke. “That’s fine with us. Will we get to meet our mom, too?” 

John’s blood went cold and his face fell. He looked, for some reason, to McGraw. McGraw shrugged. For _fuck’s sake._

“No, I’m—” The sound caught in his throat. John cleared it. “She— she passed away. I’m— I’m sorry.” 

“Oh,” One of the girls said. “I’m sorry that happened.” 

Pigtails nodded. “That’s really sad.” 

“Yes, well,” John blinked. “Thank you.” 

“Girls, eat up,” Hamilton said, pushing their plates forward. “There will be plenty of time to ask Mr. Silver questions tonight.” 

“John, please.” He said, suddenly, forcing himself back into the present, shaking off the thoughts of Madi. “Call me John.” 

Once the girls were on the bus, John sat across from McGraw and Hamilton, hands shaking, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled check. 

“This is—” He cleared his throat. “I know this isn’t much, but it’s for the girls.” 

A look of confusion on his face, Hamilton took the check and looked at it. “1800 dollars? Whatever for? You know you don’t need to pay us—” 

“It’s for their Bat Mitzvahs, isn’t it?” McGraw interrupted suddenly. “900 each?” 

John blinked, before nodding slowly, nervously. 

“Oh,” Hamilton said, his lips a perfect _O_ of surprise. “We didn’t— we didn’t know— the girls aren’t Jewish.” 

He figured as much. John’s heart sank and he ran a hand awkwardly through his hair. “I— I thought maybe that was true. They can receive that on their twelfth birthday regardless. Madi and I— we started saving since before they were born. I wanted to do 1800 each but…” He couldn’t save that much money and survive on his own at the same time. Just another way he was a failure. 

“John, you need this more than they do—” Hamilton said, still looking at the wrinkled check in his hand. John shook his head furiously, interrupting him. 

“No, I— I worked my ass off to give those girls that money. I was _homeless,_ living at my friend’s flat to give those girls that money. They receive that check when they turn twelve. I deserve that assurance.” 

“We’ll do it,” McGraw said, looking at John’s fiery eyes and Hamilton’s bewildered, pitying gaze. “Thomas can take the check to the bank on the way to work today. You’ll go with him. I can’t exactly take you to the base, and there’s no way in hell I’m leaving you here alone.” 

An hour later, John sat in the passenger seat of a silver SUV, driving through the winding streets of Providence, and becoming increasingly frustrated with Hamilton. 

The other man was so _earnest_ , so _eager_ to do right by John. He hadn’t expected this; he expected hatred, which he was relieved to receive from McGraw. He wasn’t expecting Thomas Hamilton to ask questions on how to better raise his daughters _Jewishly._

“Should we start celebrating Hanukkah? Or, perhaps, the high holy days?” Hamilton said, turning his blinker on as he pulled into a parking lot on Brown’s campus. 

“How should I know,” John grumbled, growing more frustrated by the minute. “They’re _your_ daughters.” 

“Yes, but I don’t want to keep a valuable part of their identity from them. If only I had known that they were Jewish, I would have—” 

John took a deep breath and exhaled sharply through his nose. “But you didn’t. It’s fine. I don’t have any say in their upbringing. Your husband made that abundantly clear last night.” 

Hamilton turned the key, cutting the ignition, and silence fell in the car. “James is protective. I don’t think that’s something for which to assign blame or fault.” He then nodded to the brick building in front of them. “My office is inside.” 

John looked to the brick building they were parked in front of, then back to Hamilton, before pushing open the door of the SUV. The ground was wet. The storm from last night— one John hardly remembered--- must have carried on through ‘till morning. 

“I haven’t got office hours today; I just need to do some research, answer some emails. Is there anything you can do to keep yourself busy?” Hamilton said, locking the SUV with a _beep_. 

John shrugged, and followed him into the building. Once they were in Hamilton’s office, his eyes widened at the sheer number of books lining the shelves of the cramped space. “Perhaps I’ll just read.” 

Hamilton waved a hand towards the shelf, ignoring him in favor of the sound of a computer starting up. “Feel free. It’s all academic, though.” 

“I can do academic,” John said. He preferred it sometimes, over fiction. Reading another’s work just made him bitterly jealous that he hadn’t published anything of his own. It just reminded him of more failures, of the fact that he so desperately wanted to write, but couldn’t without being reminded of the reason he _didn’t_ have a degree. 

They fell into a comfortable silence, the sound of Hamilton’s long fingers on the keys of the desktop filling the air, the occasional patter of rain hitting the windows interrupting John’s steady turn of pages. He managed to find something not totally uninteresting, a book on gender and sexuality in Enlightenment England. 

Eventually, he grew bored of whatever primary source treatise he wasn’t actually paying much attention to, and began to look around the office. Where there weren’t books, there were photographs. Of him, him and McGraw, of the girls. 

“How do you tell them apart?” John asked, finally, after his eyes settled on a picture of the four on a boat, windswept, red-cheeked, and full of total and complete joy. Telling the girls apart was seemingly impossible, at least, to John’s untrained eye, and he couldn’t just keep calling them pigtails or braids in his head. 

“Clio broke her nose when she was six. It’s a bit crooked. That’s the easiest way.” Hamilton said, without looking away from the screen. Then, he sighed, and turned towards John. “Once you get to know them, it gets easier. James and I— we just know. You would, too.” 

_If he had kept them,_ John’s brain reminds him unhelpfully. _If he was really their father._

Hamilton must have sensed John’s negative thoughts, because he clicked a few times with a mouse, and the screen of his computer fell dark. “Come, then. It’s time for lunch, anyway, and I need to be at a Starbucks to meet with some students.” 

Providence in daylight was charming, to say the least. It looked less… traumatic than John remembered it, from the hellish walk in the storm of the night before. Hamilton took John across the river into downtown for lunch, where they sat at a small, upscale café where he and McGraw were regulars, indicated by the wonderfully friendly greeting the octogenarian hostess gave the pair. 

They were seated at a small window-side table with a view of the river. John opened the menu, took one look at the prices, and immediately balked. 

“It’s on me,” Hamilton said, his hand closing John’s menu. He watched the long fingers deftly close the leather-bound covers, and pull the menu back towards himself, setting it beneath his own. “Besides, you needn’t order. You must try the soup, it’s absolutely fantastic with the chicken salad.” 

John bit the inside of his cheek, before shrugging. The hostess came back, Hamilton ordered them two teas, black, before turning back to John with a smile that he could only describe as _charming_. 

“I’ve spent countless nights thinking about you, you know.” 

John blinked. That wasn’t exactly what he was expecting the man to say. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting— maybe a conversation about John’s impending leave from his stay at the Hamilton-McGraw house, or a lecture on taking advantage of charity and how he could repay the two men he was so clearly stealing time, money, and hospitality from— but he wasn’t expecting Hamilton to admit that he laid awake at night, thinking about _John_. 

He didn’t know why, but that made something in his stomach turn over, in a not-unpleasant way. 

“Who you were, who the girls’ mother was. How grateful I was to the both of you.” Hamilton continued, as if this was a perfectly normal topic to broach over a cuppa. “James seemed much more willing to forget that the girls were adopted, to pretend that they were always part of our lives, but I couldn’t forget. _Wouldn’t_ forget. They were a gift. A gift given to me by _you_.” 

“Er,” John said, his molars still gnawing away at the sore inside his mouth. “It’s…” He wanted to say it was nothing, really, to make a joke of the situation, to make light of the girl’s adoption. Not only did it feel like an insult to Madi, to her memory, to her _love_ for the girls, but it felt _wrong_ to say in front of Hamilton, a man who clearly loved his daughters more than anything else in the world. 

Good god, why did Hamilton have to seem so utterly fucking _earnest?_ John was weak for the earnest, because, in return, it caused him to be honest. It was how he fell in love with Madi. It was _why_ he fell in love with Madi. 

“It was the worst thing I’ve ever done.” John said, finally, a confession tumbling out of him all at once. “I hated myself for it, every day. Since we signed the papers, since Madi died. I hated myself for giving them away, but even more, I hated myself for getting Madi pregnant in the first place.” 

Hamilton looked like he wanted to interrupt him, but John shook his head. Maybe this was too personal, maybe this was too much information to reveal to the other man, but it was something that needed to be said. It was something that John needed to _say_. 

“I’ve never regretted anything more in my entire life than fucking Madi bare one night, when we were drunk off our tits on tequila.” He said, coarse and brash, because that’s how he remembered the night; a coarse and brash fuck that wasn’t what he remembered of their relationship, of the love that they shared. It was a night of dirty, rough, drunken sex a few months after meeting. “Those girls weren’t conceived out of love. They were conceived out of a dirty mistake of two drunken teenagers who loved each other, sure, but barely knew each other. They shouldn’t exist. They wouldn’t exist, if I had my way.”

Now Hamilton looked angry. Still, John pressed on. 

“Before those girls, before _Madi_ , I tried to live my life without attachment. I’m just nobody from nowhere. I could do as I pleased, when I pleased, without consequence or a care thrown to the wind. But then _I_ knocked Madi up. _I_ made a mistake. And there went my life without attachments. Instead, I had one constant, massive, regret that followed me until last night, when I stepped through the threshold of your door, and saw those beautiful girls, fucking _thriving_ , even if they were afraid of me.”

“I don’t have any regret anymore, because those girls were born for you. And McGraw. And they’re happy. And if Madi’s spirit, if her image, can live on in them, even just so, then that mistake, that decade of regret, was worth it.”

Hamilton looked like he was blinking away tears. _Fuck, _that got way too personal, way too fast.__

__“I’m an academic, a teacher,” Hamilton said, finally, his voice sounding rougher than before. “I make observations. May I say something, John?”_ _

__John shrugged, already feeling open and raw and dumb, here in the midday light of a perfectly pleasant café, now tainted with the harsh reality of his regrets and his memories._ _

__“I think _you_ think that no one has ever loved you.” Hamilton said, his eyes meeting John’s, hard but not unkind. “I don’t know Madi. But I know she loved you. You don’t know the girls, nor do they know you, but I know they love you. And despite not knowing you, _I_ love you, because you gave me and my husband our daughters. For that, I will always love you. Regardless if I get to know you, to learn more about you, or not.” _ _

__John blinked once, then twice, his face going perfectly blank. That… certainly wasn’t what he was expecting Hamilton to say, not after his little tirade about how he wished his daughters never existed._ _

__Still, Hamilton had said what he said. Idly, John couldn’t help but think what McGraw, a man with a gun attached permanently at his hip, with bullets with John’s name on them loaded inside, would have to say about his husband’s sudden declaration of love for a man they hardly knew. A total stranger._ _

__He wondered, as well, what it said about Hamilton’s character, about his heart, that he could say those words so soon, without embarrassment, and without shame._ _

__John nodded. “Okay,” He said, and he felt his face soften, and his heart soften, stupidly, inexplicably, unbearably. “Okay.”_ _

__“Okay, then,” Hamilton replied, in turn, now looking a little bashful. He picked up a water glass, then, put it down without his lips ever touching the rim. “Now, I’ve been meaning to ask. I have some questions about Judaism…”_ _


	3. James

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It was after that first day, when Thomas came home with his daughters and an unruly stranger in tow, licking ice cream and singing Moana, that James McGraw decided that he truly hated John Silver._

It was after that first day, when Thomas came home with his daughters and an unruly stranger in tow, licking ice cream and singing Moana, that James McGraw decided that he truly hated John Silver. 

What bothered James wasn’t the fact that Thomas seemed mighty comfortable around the man, nor was it the fact that the girls decided that they were _fine_ with a stranger coming into their life, bearing gifts of excitement or ice cream or Disney sing-a-longs. 

No, what bothered James was that John Silver looked so _natural_ , coming home with his husband and daughters. He looked like he belonged. He looked like Callie and Clio’s _father._

He could see the similarities between John Silver and the girls. Their long, loose curls were identical to his. They had the same mischievous, charming smile that melted James’ heart and his willpower. Even the timbre of the girls’ voices, however high and young they may sound, matched the tone of Silver. Maybe they didn’t look identical to the man, but James could see the resemblance. He saw the resemblance the minute John Silver walked through the door of their home and passed out, leaving a large wet-mark on their carpet. 

James didn’t resemble his daughters. Not one iota.

Maybe one of the worst days of James’ decade of fatherhood came when Thomas was away at a conference in Florida, and they decided that James would bring the girls down separately so their little family could go to Disney World together. 

Everything was well and normal, until he was stopped at the gate, two four-year-olds in tow, and was asked if he could prove his relationship to the girls. His _daughters_. The fucking American Airlines people thought he was _kidnapping his own daughters_. 

James was never more acutely aware of the fact that he didn’t look like his daughters than when he was fumbling for their papers. He would never look like his daughters. People would always look at him with his girls, his precious, little girls, and wonder where their _real_ parents were. 

And now? Now James had to look at the reality, their _real_ father every goddamn morning. 

John Silver was worming his way into their lives, seamlessly and infuriatingly. He was there in the mornings, now up before James woke, making the girls breakfast and humming cheery tunes as he set out three cups for coffee. He was there, in the afternoon, to get the girls off the bus when James couldn’t make it back from Newport on time. 

This man was slowly becoming part of their routine lives, and yet, James didn’t know a damn thing about him. He only talked to Thomas. He only talked to the girls.

Obviously, Silver didn’t have a job (obviously), and it wasn’t like the man could come to the base with James, so every day, he went to work with Thomas. And every day, the two came back, thick as thieves, discussing religion or politics or history or fiction or whatever it may be. Thomas got Silver a library card, and was loaning the man books. 

_Their_ books. 

James wasn’t a jealous man. He knew that Thomas was perfectly satisfied, thank you very much. But between Silver’s kindling relationship with Callie and Clio, and Silver’s kindling relationship with Thomas, James felt— 

Well, he didn’t know how he felt. Maybe that was what was infuriating about all of this; he didn’t know where he stood. It felt like his role was the one shifting and changing in all of this, and that wasn’t the way it was _supposed_ to be. None of this was _supposed_ to happen.  
And yet, it all seemed to carry on, with or without James’ consent. It wasn’t jealousy, he reasoned. It was his protectiveness. It was a well-founded sense of mistrust. He saw the man’s eyes shift around suspiciously, heard the way he stalked through the house in the early hours of the morning, saw the way Silver looked at photos of the family with an unreadable expression on his face. James didn’t trust Silver, and he felt justified in his actions thus far. 

Two weeks into all of this nonsense, he awoke to a knee in his gut, and two pairs of big, brown eyes staring into his own. 

“Good morning!” Clio chirped. It was her knee in his stomach. 

“Good morning,” James grunted, stretching, before using two hands to lift Clio off of his midriff and place her next to him on the king-sized bed. He then noticed that there was an empty space next to him, the cats sleeping soundly where Thomas should be. “You girls haven’t seen your father, have you?” 

“He went to the Dunkin’ Donuts with John,” Callie dutifully reported. “They’re getting John a job.” 

James blinked. This was news to him, and not news that he was particularly happy about. A job for Silver meant he would stay longer, and that was the last thing James wanted. “Oh,” He said, trying to mask his features so that the girls wouldn’t see the look of obvious annoyance now crossing his face. He was trying to be a good sport about all of this— for the girls. It was all for the girls, always for the girls. James just had to remind himself of that. 

Often. 

“Well,” James said, reaching blindly to the side table to check the time on his phone. It was nearly 9:30— Christ, he had overslept. “What brings two angels to my bedside this morning?” 

Clio sat up a bit straighter, a serious look on her face. “You promised us _ages_ ago to go sailing for our birthdays, and we haven’t yet.” 

“We’ve been waiting so patiently!” Callie piped up, where she was now petting Pepper, who was looking very annoyed at being awake.

“Well then,” he said, looking between his daughters and their solemn-yet-hopeful faces. “I suppose we’ll have to rectify that today, won’t we?” 

The girls shouted with glee, and scrambled off the bed, probably to get started on all the preparations they had been trained for in order to take the family sailboat out on the sound. 

They had been taking their little sailboat out on Sunday afternoons for as long as the girls could remember, probably. James, a Navy man, thought it was a fine way to teach the girls responsibility while still having fun. Plus, he liked the way Thomas’ cheeks went all pink when the wind whipped them red, so James could warm him up with kisses and warm, beard-covered cheek rubs. 

He heard the alarm chime, and the tell-tale sound of the kitchen door opening. It squeaked a bit, something that James had been meaning to fix. Thomas and Silver were home from their excursion. 

James pulled on a ratty _Brown_ sweatshirt of Thomas’ and his favorite pair of woolen socks that he had knitted and padded down the hallway and down the stairs, passing the girls’ room, full of excitement and clamor, on his way to the kitchen. 

He was greeted by the smell of fresh coffee, and two boxes of Munchkins. “What’s all this?” James asked, even though he really, _really_ didn’t want to know. 

“A celebration!” Thomas said excitedly. His cheeks were already a little pink from the cold air outside, but it didn’t warm James up in the way it usually did. “John got a job at the local Dunkin Donuts ‘round the corner. The manager said he could make shift lead in a few weeks, due to his experience in England!” Thomas jovially slapped Silver on the back. Silver looked appropriately bashful, but was still watching James with a careful eye. Good. 

“About time,” James said coldly, just to watch Silver’s face fall. But then, he made the mistake of looking to Thomas, and saw that his face fell, too. Fuck, he _hated_ that face that Thomas made. Attempting to rectify and backtrack, James took a cup of coffee and pointed, inexplicably, towards the window. “We can celebrate by taking the boat out. I’ve already told the girls, they’re pleased as a peach.” 

“Boat?” John asked. 

“James bought us a sailboat for the first anniversary of our move to the States,” Thomas explained. James could feel his husband’s gaze on his back. “We go out on the weekends. The girls love it.” 

“I— I may have to pass, unfortunately,” John said. 

James rolled his eyes so obnoxiously he almost didn’t hear Thomas ask why. 

Their voices dropped to a whisper. “I’m hardly okay at walking on solid land, I don’t think I’ll be able to manage a boat.” 

“There are seats, John, you’ll be fine.” 

“I don’t want the girls to see—” 

“They won’t think less of you, if that’s what you’re worried about—” 

James slammed his coffee down on the counter, and turned back around. It wasn’t Thomas’ comforting words or reassurances that James hated. It wasn’t the way they stood closer together, their voices dropping so that James might only overhear, rather than be included in the conversation. 

It was the way they looked at so ease with each other. Thomas was only supposed to look like that with _him_. 

“You don’t have to come,” James said, finally, his voice too loud for the sudden quiet that had fallen over the room in the wake of the intimacy of Thomas and Silver’s discussion. 

Thomas shot him a nasty, nasty look. “Yes, James, he does. This is a family outing. They’re always family outings.” 

James scoffed and shook his head. “He’s no family of mine.” 

With that, he left the kitchen in favor of going outside and bringing the trash bins in, even though it could have waited until later in the afternoon. 

In the garage, he was greeted by Thomas, who was looking rightfully cross. “You’re an absolute ass, James McGraw.” 

“I’m just saying what needs to be said.” He said, gruffly, looking at the contents of the recycling that would need to go out tonight, rather than anywhere close to Thomas’ face, lest he let his husband’s face guilt him into cooperation or honesty. 

“That man gave you your daughters. He deserves your respect. Furthermore, he deserves you to not act like a cockhead towards him.” 

“You got him a job, Thomas?” James said, turning around. If they were going to do this, it was best they do it now, in the garage, away from the keen ears of the girls or Silver. “What, is he going to stay forever?” 

“He has nothing left in London, I don’t see why not. He can be closer to the girls, maybe get himself an apartment—” 

“He isn’t their father!” James exploded, his face red, his anger finally catching up to him. “What was it you said, that first night? That we’ll always be their fathers? It sure as fucking hell seems like you’ve forgotten that promise, Thomas. It seems like you’re just inviting him to waltz right in and take them away from us! He’s going to take them away from us!” 

Thomas stared at James for a few moments, his face carefully cool and blank. “How paranoid are you,” He began, finally, after a few moments of terrible, tangible silence. “That you think I’d let a man into our lives, into our _daughters’_ lives, that I didn’t trust?” 

“I’m not _paranoid_ ,” James shot back. “I don’t trust him, and you shouldn’t either. He’s been here less than a month, Thomas, he’s a stranger! Need I remind you, he came here after stalking us with an unknown intent. He gave away the girls in the first place. That’s suspect, Thomas, and it’s only because you’re too damn trusting that you can’t see it.” 

“Had you ever spoken to him, rather than glaring at him, you would _know_ his intentions, as I do, and I have found them to be good and honest.” Thomas said. “Whereas, I have found your intentions regarding his role in our lives and our daughters’ lives lacking.” 

James didn’t speak, unable to form a response that wasn’t anything but a rebuttal that sounded immature. Instead, he turned back towards the recycling bins and began to sort the papers from the plastics. 

“I won’t be going out on the boat today,” Thomas declared, suddenly. 

James turned, a confused look on his face, but Thomas shot him a look of warning, as if he dared him to speak. 

“There are only two adult life vests on the boat. You will go, and you will take John, and I will stay here and work on my book, which desperately needs work. And if you make today uncomfortable for our daughters, I will be _very_ cross.” 

That was how James McGraw found himself teaching John Silver how to man the sail of their boat, _Miranda_. “Again, port, left. Starboard, right. If you need help, the girls have done this since they could walk. Their sea legs are better than some of my sailors,” He said, fondly ruffling Callie’s hair as she fastened her life vest. 

“Papa,” She said, her dark eyes looking at him impatiently. “Let’s _go_.” 

“Alright, alright,” He chuckled. James couldn’t help but be merrier on the sea, regardless of present company. His daughters’ love of sailing only made him happier-- that was his and his alone to share with his girls, John Silver be damned. 

He did a brief sweep of the boat, making sure everyone had their life vests on and looked ready to go. Everything seemed shipshape. "Clio, fasten your vest and tie your shoe." He said, and then bent over, untying the boat from the dock and pushing away, the sails catching wind and taking them out into the harbor. 

He didn't want to go too far out, not without Thomas. The girls were excellent sailors, that much was true, but he really needed another adult that knew their way around a sail in order to get into deep water. James did not count Silver as an adult, and it wasn't just for his lack of sailing knowledge. But the weather was beautiful, windy, but crisply cold and sunny, so James' plan was to take the girls around Conanicut Island, which meant only a brief venture into the Atlantic for some more exciting deep-water sailing, then back into the safer, more guarded waters of the bay. 

All was going well, until he announced his intention to go below deck for another length of rope. Below deck was a small cabin, with a bed where he and Thomas liked to spend a few evenings alone, as well as more sailing supplies and storage. The girls didn't come down here often, as the ladder was difficult to navigate for such short legs. Even today, on relatively calm waters, James found himself nearly thrown down the ladder by a particularly brutal wave crashing against the boat. He thought nothing of it, retrieved the length of rope, and climbed the ladder. 

When he emerged topside, John and Clio were nowhere to be found. Callie sat, sobbing, hanging over the edge of the boat. 

James dropped the rope and practically ran to the edge of the boat. "Callie, what's wrong? What happened?"

She said nothing, likely unable to between the wracking sobs and sniffles, and pointed out to the choppy waters of the Atlantic where Clio's purple life vest bobbed in the water. Sans the daughter that was supposed to be in it. "Cli-- Clio was standin' like you always s-say not too and she t-tripped an--and John-" 

Two heads of wet, curly hair popped out of the water, John treading water to keep him and Clio afloat. "I've got her!" He called, his lips rapidly turning blue in the cold of the water. James immediately turned, grabbed the boat's buoy, and with the accuracy of a man whose life was spent in the Navy, tossed it to Silver. Once the man had a firm grasp on it, and James was pulling them in, he let his eyes go to his daughter, and let out the breath he was holding. She was awake, alert, and clinging to Silver. He didn't even want to consider what he would have done if he looked her way and saw her eyes closed or worse-- open but lifeless.

The ladder thrown into the water, he pulled Silver out up and out, and immediately took Clio from his arms. "Sweet girl," He said, holding her close to his body. She was shivering, her teeth chattering and her lips blue. "I'm so glad you're okay." 

"Papa," She said, tears welling in her eyes. "I'm so sorry, I--" 

"Shh," He said, soothingly, running his hand over the sweater that was soaked and clung to her back. "It's okay. It doesn't matter. You're okay." 

He managed to get Clio and Callie settled down in the cabin with blankets, watching Moana on their iPad, Clio's wet clothes in his arms with two towels and blankets for Silver. As he climbed the ladder to the top deck, he saw Silver, sitting on a cushioned bench, his head in his hands. He was shaking from the cold. 

James approached him slowly, tossing Clio's clothes to the side before offering the other man the towels wordlessly. Silver looked up to accept them, and when he did, James saw how red his eyes were. 

He wasn't shaking from the cold. He was _crying._

Awkwardly, James sat next to the man, and patted him on the shoulder. "You--" He shook his head. "You must be cold. Wrap your hair in that, it'll help, and then we can get a blanket around you." 

"She almost died," Silver said, his voice hoarse. "I turned my back for one second, and all of a sudden, Callie's screaming and all I could think about is that I would be the reason why your daughter was dead. I've never been more scared in my life."

"Well," James stretched out his legs, looking at his boots. "If it makes you feel better, that isn't the first time one of the girls has gone overboard." 

Silver looked at him and blinked. "What?" 

"We were in much shallower water, and it was summer, but Callie once was knocked in by the sail that I let go. She was fine, of course, just as Clio is fine today. I nearly had a heart attack, though. I thought Thomas was going to kill me." James said. "It was my fault that day. It was my fault today, too. I should have never gone below deck. I should have had you do it, or one of the girls." 

Silver continued to stare at James. "I thought you were going to kill me. But that wasn't why I was scared. Every time I look at them, they fall or skin a knee or-- or fucking fall into the ocean, I think they're gonna die and my life is going to be ruined and I hate it." 

"That's parenthood," James said idly, unthinkingly, and caught himself at Silver's sharp intake of breath. He wanted to take back what he said, to qualify it by saying something along the lines of _but you aren't their parent, remember._ He couldn't. Not after Silver's actions today. "Silver--" 

"You can call me John, you know. I know you hate me, but they all call me John." He waved a hand towards the rest of the boat, to where he assumed Silver-- _John_ \-- thought the cabin and the girls were. "Your husband included." 

"John, then." He said, finally. "I'm going to sail us back to the docks. Wrap up in those blankets, yeah? I won't have you getting pneumonia on my watch." 

The ride back home was quiet. The girls were asleep in the backseat. John was quiet as well, watching the coast of Rhode Island pass by. Usually, James was grateful for a quiet car ride-- the girls usually demanded the Moana soundtrack played at full volume-- but today, the silence hung between him and the other man pregnantly and uncomfortably. 

A conversation needed to happen between them, a conversation that was a fortnight overdue. 

"Are you-- do you--" James took a deep breath. "Do you intend to take custody from us?" 

John's head turned, slowly, a frown on his face. "Once, yes. When I first came here." 

James' grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles whitening. Still, he did not speak, as it seemed as though John intended to continue. 

"I confess, I have not been... entirely truthful since I arrived." 

_Once,_ James reminded himself. _John said once. Let him finish speaking before you throw him out of the car and into the ocean._

"The girls’ maternal grandmother, she paid me a sum of money to come here and retrieve them. She hates me, but she thought they'd be better suited living with her. She's very powerful and very persuasive. But--" 

"But?" James asked, harshly. 

"I wrote to her a week ago. I told her that in no uncertain terms, the girls would stay with you. She threatened to press legal action, but I reminded her that you two were the girls’ fathers, legally, emotionally--" He shook his head. "It was a mistake to come here. I shouldn't have come here in the first place, or taken advantage of your-- of Thomas' generosity. But-- I've tried to fix it." 

James' grip on the steering wheel did not slacken. He was infuriated. He was right, but it gave him no joy or satisfaction like it would have this morning. John was being honest with him. James knew that for sure. Furthermore, he knew that John loved the girls. He proved that today. 

"Why--" James said, finally, his voice hoarse. "Why do you say it was a mistake to come here?"

"Because I've fallen in love with the girls. And I’ve-- I’ve--" John hesitated, before stopping. 

_Say it_ , James thought. _Say you’re in love with him, you utter piece of chickenshit._

James, instead, said nothing, staring straight ahead. “Mention nothing of this grandmother or this plot to Thomas.” He said gruffly, and then said nothing else for the rest of the ride. 

He wanted, desperately, to avoid John and-- and everything including John-- until the situation somehow resolved itself, but Thomas refused to let that happen. Thomas seemingly found great joy by orchestrating situations wherein he and John were together, much to James’ anger. 

There was parent-teacher night, to which John was invited, even though he had no reason to be there. James watched from the corner as John talked to the other fifth-grade parents, shook hands with Mr. Young, the girls’ teacher, and walked around looking at the art of geese migration formations as if he was walking around the MoMA, as he thoughtfully commented on each work, not just Callie and Clio’s. 

When the air grew colder, James found himself at the local ice rink, skating in circles with Thomas-- who was horribly uncoordinated-- as the girls giggled, slipping and sliding as they tried to push John around on one of those skate-and-ride seals. John looked so miserable as the girls laced up their skates, trying to put a smile on his face but failing, until James rented one of those damn seals from the skate rental, and John finally perked up. 

When James picked John up from work for Callie's winter dance recital, he almost couldn't fit into the car given the sheer size of the bouquet of flowers he carried. Then, he discovered, it wasn't one bouquet-- it was _three_. Earlier in the week, James complained to Thomas about his inability to get Callie flowers like he always did for her recital due to the rush to get from Newport back to Providence. John must've overheard. He bought bouquets for all three of them. 

It was infuriating how James' feelings shifted, slowly, then all at once. 

He found himself smiling as John crutched up and down the sidelines of Clio's soccer games, yelling at the referees about a bad call, even though it was just a peewee soccer game. He woke at his usual time, to find John making pancakes with smiling faces of blueberries and bacon for the girls, and felt comforted by it. 

He helped John in the kitchen as he made latkes for Hanukkah and helped his daughters light the candles of the menorah as John helped Thomas stumble through the hebrew of the prayer. When he bought Thomas’ Christmas present, he found himself thinking of what John would like for the holiday as well. Once, he went looking for the girls for bedtime, and found them already fast asleep, tucked in their beds, and John, sleeping upright on the floor, leaned against Callie's bed, _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ held open by his thumb in his lap. 

"Do you still fear that he'll take them away from us?" Thomas asked, while James was brushing his teeth, after he helped a still half-asleep John back to his room. 

James couldn't answer. 

Because, _yes,_ James feared that John would take the girls away. But he felt he feared it no less than the thought of the girls' kidnapping or murder or illness or any fears that often plagued his sleep. But he couldn't help but see the way Callie and Clio looked at John Silver-- the way their eyes gazed up at him like he hung the moon, like he was the morning sun, like he was Thomas or James-- like he was their _father._

He couldn't hate any man his daughters so clearly and so dearly loved. 

And so, he and Thomas talked, haltingly, and slowly, in a way they hadn't talked since they first began to date, all those years ago. 

"If he is a father to the girls, then what is he to us?" James asked, looking intently at his husband as the other man blew on his tea, before carefully taking a sip. 

They were sitting in their favorite café, waiting for their soups to arrive. 

"You know," Thomas said, placing his teacup back on his saucer with a _clink_ , "I took John here, that first day."

James fiddled with the napkin. "I figured as much. What did you talk about?" 

"How much he regretted the girls' birth. He spoke quite... explicitly about their conception, their birth... he said he wished they didn't exist. I confess, I almost strangled him," Thomas said. James could feel himself get angry in response, but he waited, as there seemed to be a _but_ coming. 

"But then he continued, talking about how happy the girls were, how they thrived with us, how he saw the way the girls were destined to be with _us, _how we were meant to be a family." Thomas laughed, a little. "He's a very charming man, I must confess."__

__James hummed in agreement. "That day, on the boat, when I came back from helping the girls and he was shaking and shivering and crying, not because he thought I was going to kill him, but because he was so scared for our daughter-- you know how much I want to hate that little shit, Thomas, but I can't."  
"Therein lies our inquiry," Thomas said, after a moment. "What is he to us?" _ _

__They agreed, in that café, to let things progress naturally, to let John to come to them on his own terms, just as James had come to Thomas and Miranda all those years ago. It seemed to work, for the most part. There were moments where the three of them would sit together in the living room with the girls in bed, and John would place his hand on Thomas' thigh. Or when his glance would linger on James for a moment too long, in the mornings over coffee, before everyone else was awake. There was something growing between them, building, but it was taking time. It wasn't something they could rush into. Especially not with the safety and comfort of their daughters at risk._ _

__Things came to ahead when they took the boat out for the first time since Clio's incident in October._ _

__It was March, the first warm-ish day after a long, snowy winter, and the sun was shining bright against the dark clouds of a rainy, early spring day. John was silent the entire car ride over, staring out the window instead of singing with the girls, as he usually did. When Thomas and the girls boarded, John stayed back, hesitating on the deck._ _

__"Are you alright?" James asked._ _

__John nodded, then seemingly changed his mind. "No," he admitted, softly. "What if something happens again? I had nightmares for weeks after Clio fell in. What if I don't notice a problem? What if I don't find her in time? What if it's Callie and not Clio? I think Callie's always been a little more hesitant with me, what if--"_ _

__And then, James' lips are on John's. This man-- this stranger, this first-time father, this absolute fool-- was panicking over his daughters, over future situations he could not control, over the fear of Callie and Clio's safety. James saw so much of himself in him, he couldn't help but kiss John to shut him up._ _

__"It'll be alright," James said, finally, after pulling away from the kiss, John's head cradled in his hands. "You love them, and you'll always worry, but that doesn't make them any less safe."_ _

__John's eyes were still closed, but he opened them slowly, his cheeks red, as he turned to look at the boat, where Thomas was smiling in that smug way of his, his arms folded over his life-vest. "About time," he said. "Now, let's go, the girls are complaining, and I don't know how to untie this damn thing."_ _

__Later, that evening, long after their successful sailing wherein nobody went overboard, and long after the girls went to bed, John lay in their bed, nestled between them as if he had always been there._ _

__"Are you sure this is okay?" he said, though his voice was thick with sleep and his eyes were already closed._ _

__"Yes," Thomas whispered, his hand lacing with John's._ _

__"Go to sleep, the two of you," James complained, where he was trying to sleep, dammit. "We'll talk about it in the morning."_ _

__And so they talked about it, the next morning, over pancakes and coffee. They asked the girls how they felt about John joining their family, and James smiled at John's flush, when the girls stated their confusion as to why he wasn't already._ _

__James thought to himself, as he reached to squeeze John's hand, that he was finally going to have to find a larger table, if the fifth chair was to sit there permanently._ _


	4. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Two years later._

_Two years later_

Her Louboutins clacked too loudly, perhaps, in the marbled foyer of the Synagogue. A glance in the mirrored reflection of a memorial presented back to her what she already knew; despite the transatlantic flight, the mad dash from the airport to her hotel, and her frantic urgency to get a stubborn piece of lint off her dress, Miranda Hamilton looked pristine. 

“Aunt Miranda?”

She turned, and saw her goddaughters running towards her. She bent on one knee and scooped Callie into the left and Clio into the right, and squeezed them tightly. 

“We didn’t know you were coming!” Callie said, burying her face into Miranda’s peacoat. 

“And miss this? Your dads would kill me,” She said, with a small smile on her face. 

“They didn’t say anything!” Clio replied, taking a step back to fix her dress. Finally, it seemed that the girls’ fathers were letting them dress separately. The matching was adorable, but the girls were twelve now. Their independence was long past due.

“Well, it’s a bit of a surprise,” Miranda winked. She checked her watch-- Cartier, a gift from Thomas for her birthday years ago-- and stood. “Well, ladies, shouldn’t we be getting inside?” Miranda, confessed, she had never entered a Synagogue before. Nor had she _ever_ attended any nature of religious life cycle events for her closest friends. She and Thomas were married in the Anglican church, but that was at his father’s bequest. When Thomas and James were married, it was by a Justice of the Peace. She wasn’t christened the girls’ godmother; she was simply written into their will as their legal guardian. 

Now, she was at a Synagogue, for a coming-of-age ceremony. 

Though, as she entered the sanctuary, greeted by a calming wave of blue and white and gold, she had to admit, Thomas seemed a little _old_ to have a Bar Mitzvah. 

Nonetheless, he looked very handsome in a deep navy suit, standing to the side of the altar (bimah, she researched this), as James and a very handsome young man (John Silver, she researched him as well) fiddled with Thomas’ Tallit, smoothing the shoulders, aligning them just so. Thomas looked nervous, reaching to the back of his head, as if to make sure his Yarmulke (Kippah? Miranda wasn’t 100% on the language) when he spotted her. His entire face lit up, and he waved. 

James turned and looked as well, before striding down the aisle and gathering her in his arms. “You made it,” He murmured, his face crushed against her neck, his hug all-consuming as they so often were. 

“I did,” She replied, delighted, hugging him back. “He looks so happy.” 

“We all are,” James said, simply, before taking a step back. “Come on, my girls,” He said, referring not only to Miranda, but his daughters still behind her. “We’ve got to sit, it’s about to start.” 

The ceremony itself was absolutely gorgeous. Thomas stood proudly next to the Rabbi as she led the service, and as he chanted the haftarah, she looked to James sitting next to her as he discreetly wiped away a tear. 

She reached over and held his hand. 

“I’m just so proud of him,” He whispered, looking to her and squeezing her hand tightly. “After everything with his father, to find happiness here--” He smiled and turned back to the ceremony, where, as Miranda understood it, it was time for Thomas to address the congregation. 

“Family, friends,” Thomas began, looking the man he always was, but somehow _more,_ as if he finally grew into himself fully, “thank you for coming today, to share in this wonderful celebration with me.” He looked to Miranda and smiled. “Some of you have travelled far to be here, and I love you all the more for it.” 

He looked back to the congregation. “I know, to many of you, especially to my husband and Rabbi Haas, it seemed unusual when a middle-aged WASP entered the doors one afternoon announced his intention to convert to Judaism.” 

The congregation chuckled alongside Thomas, and Thomas continued. “But I am so honored that this congregation has accepted me with such open arms. It’s been a long road so far, but the journey has just begun. My relationship with HaShem is ever-changing and ever-developing, but today, I am entering into a new relationship with Him, one where I take full moral and ethical responsibility for my actions. And as a political philosophy professor, you all may know how monumental this occasion truly is.” 

That got a snort from James beside her. 

Thomas talked about his commitment to the community and his faith, what he learned through his process of conversion, how he connected to the Torah portion, and thanking his family again. Then, seemingly the entire congregation got up and went into a hall for bagels. 

Miranda was helping Clio make her plate when Thomas’ long arms wrapped around her. “Why, you look as dashing as ever,” he said, twisting her around. “I might just have to take you back.” 

Miranda smacked his arm before giving him a kiss on his cheek. “Congratulations, darling,” she said, “but I think your husband would object.” Her eyes fell on John Silver, talking to the Rabbi over a cup of coffee. “Or should I say husbands?” 

Thomas’ eyes darkened, and he grinned, a truly brilliant grin. “Let me introduce you to him, Mandy.” 

As if overheard from across the room, Miranda watched as John Silver finished his conversation with the Rabbi, and walked over to where Miranda and Thomas were standing. 

“John, this is Miranda,” Thomas said, and Miranda held her hand out for Silver to shake. 

“The famous Miranda!” Silver said, blue eyes sparkling in a way that rivaled Thomas’. “I’ve heard so much about you.” He took her hand and shook it vigorously. 

“Likewise,” Miranda said. “James actually just spoke about you the other day. He said you’ve finished a draft of a novel.” 

“Did he?” Silver said, looking confused. “I mean, well, _yes_ , but--” 

“John,” Thomas interrupted. “Did I ever mention that Miranda is an executive at Penguin Random House?” 

“...Oh?” Well, now Silver looked very flushed. 

“Tell me, Mr. Silver,” Miranda said, taking the man’s arm. “What is your novel about?”

“Well,” He said, as they turned to take a lap around the room. “It’s about a man who has made a lot of mistakes in his life, but finds his family, and finds a home.” 

“Well, I’d love to take a look, if you don’t mind.” She said, looking back over to the center of the room, where Thomas now stood with James and their daughters. 

“Of course,” Silver said. “Excuse me.” 

With that, Silver crossed the room and scooped Callie into his arms, ruffling Clio’s hair to her visible protest. Casually, he slung an arm around James’ waist, and let Thomas press a kiss to his cheek. 

Miranda had to admit, he looked like a natural fit. Like he had found his home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was so much fun to write, and I'm forever grateful for Mel for her help as my wonderful beta, and again, to Micah, for their wonderful art. I hope y'all enjoy, and don't forget to follow me on tumblr [@flawlessassholesfic](www.flawlessassholesfic.tumblr.com).


End file.
